I landed, as luck would have it, on my bad leg. I lay groaning on the cobbles, cursing walking sticks in general and Summerville in particular.

I'd kept hold of my own walking stick, a fine weapon, but after traveling the length of London, spending too many precious coins, and being pummeled for my pains, I was no closer to finding Summerville's.

"Sir?" a gentle voice above me asked. "Can I help?"

I peered up through the rain to see a familiar face hovering over me. I'd seen the same face this morning in the jewelers' shop, but this apparition wore a threadbare coat, shabby clothes, and the dog collar of a parson.

"Summerville?"

As the man helped me to my feet, I realized he wasn't Summerville. At least, not my Summerville.

He walked me to the relative warmth of his rooms on the ground floor of a nearby boarding house and fed me coffee.

"I am vicar here, of this parish," Franklin Summerville told me as we sipped the rather weak brew. "There was never much money in the family. Most of it went to buy George his commission. George took the sword; I took the cloth."

I thought that the cloth had been rather thrust upon him, but I did not say so.

Realization struck me. "You are Dobbin," I said.

He stared at me, stricken. "Pardon?"

"You are the father of Nellie's children." I sat back, stretching my game leg. My coat was ripped, and my valet, Bartholomew, would be greatly distressed. He'd give my bruises as much attention, but Bartholomew prided himself on keeping my few garments fine. "I thought your brother to be her paramour at first. But he is not, is he?"

"What is your game, Captain? If you came here on George's behalf, do not waste your breath. I have nothing. And if he accosts Nellie again, I'll… Well, he will regret it."